


Unfurl

by starstrung



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: "Decoration" of Andraste's Holy Image, F/F, Ingestion of Moldy Cheese, Mention of Nug Fetishization, Mild Gore, Reckless Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela hasn’t been able to say no to Hawke yet. She should probably be worried about that. But right now, at this moment, she can’t be bothered to give a damn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfurl

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Rebecca](http://www.redcheekdays.tumblr.com) for letting me throw ideas at her for this one. <3

“Do you know who my new neighbor is?” Hawke says, greeting her at the door of her new manor. “Lord _Fulbright_. I hope he never finds out we spread those rumors of him having a nug fetish.”

“If he didn’t want people to think he has a nug fetish, he shouldn’t have said those things about Merrill when we passed him in the street,” says Isabela.

Hawke nods. “Quite right. Which is why I think I might apologize to him by filling all of his fancy shoes with Darktown mud.”

Isabela grins. “I’ve taught you well.”

Hawke gives a mock bow, and leads her into the manor. It’s still sparsely furnished, but the floors gleam, and the huge fireplace fills the room with a comfortable warmth.

“It’s big.”

Hawke laughs, sounding a little nervous. “It is. I haven’t even had time to go through all the rooms yet.”

“I don’t like it,” Isabela says, surprising herself.

Hawke’s eyebrows draw together. “All right, don’t be afraid to tell me what you really feel.”

“Don’t you miss Lowtown? This place is so stuffy. Highbred.” Isabela can’t imagine that Hawke would take kindly to her being a frequent visitor here. One noble sighting her strolling into the Hawke estate, and Hawke would be the gossip of Hightown.

“Well, I can’t say I’ll miss the spicy aroma of potential muggers robbing my mother on her way home from the market,” Hawke says. “But you’re right. Having to live next to all these nobles is going to be rather taxing. I might need your help with that.”

“My help?”

“Well, the sooner these nobles realize I won’t be a charming addition to their lunch parties, the better. I’ve already got a stack of invitations. Are you up for scandalizing the locals with me?”

“Ooh, yes,” Isabela says, clapping her hands together. Hawke is so delightful, she could kiss her. And what a good idea, that. Kissing Hawke. She doesn’t know why she hasn’t thought of it.

“We could get started right away, you know,” Isabela says. “Scandalizing the locals.”

“What did you have in mind?” Hawke asks.

Instead of answering, Isabela comes closer, deliberately crowding into Hawke’s space. Hawke, bless her heart, takes the hint. Her hands come to Isabela’s waist, pulling her close.

Isabela presses their lips together, winding her fingers through Hawke’s hair and kissing her until Hawke makes a soft noise of surprise that sends warm shivers down Isabela’s spine. She feels giddy and drunk. Hawke does not kiss with any of the wild-eyed fervor that she fights with. She kisses like she’s trying to learn what Isabela is made of.

When they finally break away, they are both out of breath.

“Sweet Maker,” Hawke says, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Isabela smirks, enjoying the way Hawke can’t seem to look away from her lips, which must be swollen from kissing. “I do have that effect on people.”

“I’ll show you the bedroom, shall I?” Hawke says, like they’re on a damned house tour.

Any teasing reply Isabela is about to make about Hawke’s impatience is swallowed up when Hawke lifts her up into her arms. Isabela gasps in surprise and wraps her arms tightly around Hawke’s shoulders.

She’s been with men who have tried to impress her by carrying her like this, and it has ended in disaster more times than one. Isabela is not as light as she looks, especially considering she carries about thirty pounds of sharp steel on her at all times. But Hawke carries her confidently up the stairs, without hesitation.

“You’re a dream, you know that?” Isabela says.

“Not a dream.” Hawke doesn’t even sound out of breath, damn her. “Just someone whose dog has a bad habit of falling asleep in strange places.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. Of course Hawke would bring up her dog _now_. She pushes aside the neck of Hawke’s shirt and begins sucking at the skin there. When she runs her teeth lightly over Hawke’s collarbone, she hears Hawke’s sharp intake of breath, and feels her beginning to walk faster. _Good to know_.

They fall back onto Hawke’s bed, and Isabela wastes no time in rolling them over so that she straddles Hawke’s hips. She pulls Hawke’s shirt up out of her trousers, kisses the flat of her stomach. Hawke squirms and giggles.

“What’s so funny?” asks Isabela.

“I’ve barely even slept in this bed yet. And now you’re going to fuck me in it.”

Isabela hums. She likes the sound of that. “Now every time you sleep here, you’ll remember this.” She slips her hand into Hawke’s trousers and drags a finger across the seat of her smallclothes, which are already wet with want.

Hawke moans, arching into the touch. Isabela pulls back and Hawke swears incoherently.

“Do you want that?” Isabela asks. She cups Hawke’s cheek with her hand, feels how flushed and hot she is. Hawke’s eyes seem bluer than ever, gone half-lidded with desire.

“Yes,” Hawke pants into her palm. “Isabela, please.”

Isabela hasn’t been able to say no to Hawke yet. She should probably be worried about that. But right now, at this moment, she can’t be bothered to give a damn.

-

She decides to stay in Kirkwall a while longer. The city is growing on her.

Meanwhile, this thing between her and Hawke is still relatively new. Isabela’s been enjoying teaching Hawke her ways in bed, and Hawke’s a fast learner. They have fun together. For now, that’s all it is.

Except on the nights when Isabela’s too restless to sleep, and she wants someone to roam the city with.

Isabela scales the wall up to Hawke’s window. She’s gotten quite good at it, although she’s not sure she’d be able to manage it while sober. Hawke’s window is open, like it always is. Hawke told her she’d gotten tired of having to replace the locks each time Isabela broke in.

“Hey, boy,” Isabela whispers, and Hawke’s mabari opens one eye, snuffles a little, and goes back to sleep. Which is a relief, since the first time she did this, he almost took a chunk out of her leg. Fortunately, he seems to have gotten used to her late night visits. Still in one piece, Isabela goes to Hawke’s bed.

“’Bela? That you?” Hawke is a light sleeper, as always.

“Get your sword, Hawke. I have a _night_ planned. I even wrote a list this time.” She unfolds the piece of paper and shakes it so it makes a crinkling noise.

“Does your list involve me getting any sleep before sunrise?”

“Not a chance.”

“No, somehow I didn’t think it would,” Hawke groans.

There are a series of noises that indicate that Hawke is dragging herself out of bed. The only thing Isabela can see is a lump of blankets moving slowly towards the edge of the mattress. A few moments later, an arm extracts itself from the lump to reach for the sword propped up against the bedside table. This is followed shortly by a leg that inserts itself into one of the boots lying on the floor.

“Sometime before the next Age, thank you,” Isabela says. In response, a second hand reaches out from the blankets to make a rude gesture in Isabela’s direction.

Once Hawke is finally awake and dressed, they head out into the streets, where Isabela leads them towards the Chantry.

“So I was polishing my boots the other day and I thought to myself, how brilliant would it be if the Chantry mothers woke up one morning to find that someone had covered their statue of Andraste in lacy Orlesian underclothes?”

“And then you thought, why don’t I take Hawke along to commit this blasphemy? It’s not like her soul is damned enough already.”

“Blasphemy is such a strong word.”

“Which word would you prefer? Desecration? Defilement?”

“Decoration. All right, enough chatter. We need to break into an Orlesian clothing shop.”

-

It all goes surprisingly well at first. They manage to arrange the multitude of lacy undergarments over the statue of Andraste to Isabela’s satisfaction without being caught. Things take a turn after that. They’re walking through the streets on their way to filling Seneschal Bran’s office with fish, when they’re jumped by about a dozen men.

Not a problem for the both of them, but it does end up leaving quite a mess.

“Shit, the city guard is coming. Act natural,” Hawke says.

Isabela looks around. She has three men at her feet groaning and clutching at their guts. She thinks this is an unreasonable request for Hawke to make.

“Wait, what day is it?” Hawke asks.

“Tuesday,” Isabela says, and watches Hawke relax. “Shouldn’t we try to make a run for it?”

“No, we’d never make it. Trust me, it’ll be fine,” Hawke says, and hurriedly brushes back her disheveled hair with her fingers. “How do I look?”

Isabela has no time to answer this strange question. Three city guards round the corner, in full armor and with swords drawn. One of them, a very familiar orange-haired woman, looks particularly angry.

“Hello Aveline,” says Hawke. She waves feebly.

“I’ve never seen this woman in my life,” Aveline tells the other guards. “If I did know who she was, I would never condone her” she turns to face Hawke, and the look in her eyes is more threatening than the Blight, “ _blatant disregard for the law_.”

“For the record, they attacked us,” Hawke says. “They’re not even dead.”

Isabela makes a head count. “Actually, I think some of them are a little dead,” she says.

“We should arrest these two and take them back to the barracks, Captain,” one of the guards says.

“I’ll take care of it. You go on ahead without me,” Aveline tells them. The guards sheath their swords and leave.

“How’s work been, Aveline?” Hawke says after they’re gone. She sounds far too cheerful for someone in the middle of being arrested. “I see you’re still on the lousy nightshift patrols.”

Aveline massages her temple like she has a headache. She takes a length of rope from her belt and ties Hawke’s wrists together. She comes over to Isabela and does the same to her.

“You’re very good at this, _Captain_ ,” Isabela says, and winks at her.

“Maker give me strength,” Aveline mutters, turning her eyes briefly to the heavens. “Why is it that you two are always involved in every bit of trouble this city has to offer?”

“I’m sure there must be _some_ trouble in Kirkwall that we’re not part of,” Hawke says.

“There was that one explosion in the foundry a week ago. We weren’t involved in that,” Isabela says. “Not in a way you could prove, anyhow.”

Aveline sighs. “All right. Let’s go. Back to the barracks.”

There is a moment where no one moves.

Aveline crosses her arms. “Or did you think I’d let you go free? Tell the rest of the guards you got away? Maybe give them a story where you surprised me while I wasn’t looking?”

Hawke shuffles her feet. “Well,” she says, looking at the ground.

“Not going to happen.” Aveline then turns to Isabela, as if in question.

“Hey, don’t look at me, big girl,” she says, and then considers. “Or, do look at me. I look great all trussed up in rope. Ask Hawke.”

Aveline groans, and pushes them towards the guard barracks.

-

“Lovely place you have here,” Hawke says cheerfully as Aveline unties her and shoves her into a cell.

“Mmm, so forceful.” Isabela bats her eyelashes at Aveline, which earns her a hard shove of her own.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” says Aveline, and storms off.

Then it is silent except from some groaning coming from the adjacent cell. Isabela pulls out her lock picks and goes to the cell door.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Hawke says.

“Getting us out of here. I can have this open in a second.”

Hawke’s hand on her wrist stops her. “We don’t need to break out of here. Aveline will get us out.”

“Aveline’s the one who put us in here in the first place!”

“Just trust me, all right? Aveline always comes through.”

Isabela shrugs and sits down, back against the wall. It’s certainly not the first time she’s had to spend the night in a cell and it won’t be the last. Kirkwall’s accommodations aren’t spectacular, but at least the stench of piss and vomit isn’t as bad as some places she’s been in.

“Tell me a story,” Hawke says. She sits against the opposite wall, long limbs stretched out in front of her. “Pass the time.”

“You should have gotten arrested with Varric if you wanted a story,” Isabela says.

“Varric’s much too charming to get arrested. He’d have half the barracks buying him drinks by now.”

“And probably buying half his books too,” Isabela says fondly.

“That dwarf could become viscount if he really wanted to.” Hawke shifts into a more comfortable position, her leather boots scraping against the stone floor. “So? Got any stories?”

“Ones that would make your toes curl,” Isabela says.

“After all this time, do you really think I get squeamish about violence that easily?” Hawke asks.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about violence, sweet thing. But I know plenty of those kinds of stories too.” She doesn’t mean for there to be that hint of bitterness in her voice. It’s just the life she’s lived.

“Do you know any stories about dragons?” Hawke asks. “Don’t laugh.”

Isabela laughs anyway. “No, I don’t. I did nearly lose my life crewing on a ship whose captain thought it would be a good idea to smuggle dragonlings to Tevinter. Poor nasty bugger. Last job he ever took.”

“What happened? How’d you survive?” Hawke asks, leaning forward.

Isabela tells her. She’s barely begun before Hawke complains about cobwebs and moves over to her side of the cell, pillowing her head in Isabela’s lap.

“Keep going,” Hawke says, eyes closed. Her legs are so long that she needs to prop her feet up on the opposite wall.

Isabela takes a breath and continues the story, fingers idly picking the cobwebs out of Hawke’s hair. She sets the dragonlings free from the captain’s clutches, and in return they help her escape from the ship, which has now caught on fire (Varric’s not the only one who’s allowed to take artistic liberties). The dragonlings then carry her safely back to shore.

Hawke is silent for a moment after she finishes. “What does it feel like?”

“What? To be clinging to the back of a dragonling?”

“No. To be so full of shit. I imagine it’s uncomfortable.”

Isabela swats the top of Hawke’s head. “No faith at all, you rotten disbeliever.”

Hawke laughs, and the movement has her hair tickling the bare skin of Isabela’s thighs, drawing Isabela’s thoughts to other things.

“All right, I told you a story. How about we pass time a different way now?”

“What did you have in m—”. Hawke’s voice gets cut off in a surprised yelp when Isabela pushes her upright and presses her against the wall, mouth sealed over hers.

“Here?” Hawke asks, when Isabela’s done biting at her bottom lip long enough for her to say something.

In answer, Isabela shoves a thigh between Hawke’s legs. “Yes, here,” Isabela says. She unbuttons the top of Hawke’s shirt so she can slide her hand in and squeeze at her breast. Hawke moans against her lips.

“Are you _serious_?” Aveline says.

Isabela turns around, one hand still decidedly inside Hawke’s shirt. “Yes, quite serious. Do you mind? Or would you like to join in?”

“Aveline!” Hawke says, clearing her throat. She pulls Isabela’s hand out of her shirt and straightens her clothes. “Knew you’d come for us.”

“Did you?” Aveline says, crossing her arms. “Because it looked like you two were getting on all right without me. It’s not like I’ve been spending all night proving your innocence or anything.”

“How’d you manage that?” Isabela says, and tries to head out the open door. Aveline steps in her way.

“Those men you killed? They’re part of a smuggling racket that we’ve been trying to put down for a while. We’ll say you were helping out by putting a stop to their activities,” Aveline answers. “Any idea why they tried to come after you?”

“I think their leader might have sent me a threatening letter a week or two ago,” Hawke says. “I get so many of those, I lose count.”

Aveline’s expression is stormy. “Next time you get a letter like that, show it to me before you toss it in the fire, all right? Now get out of here, both of you.” Aveline stands aside and lets them out of their cell.

“Don’t we get a reward?” Isabela asks. “For putting a stop to those activities you were talking about?”

“There was a reward, yes. Considering how this night’s gone, I think I’ll use that money to get new armor for my recruits. The city guard thanks you for your generous donation,” Aveline says, and does that thing with her shoulders that makes her look ten times scarier.

Isabela sighs. “Fair enough. Enjoy the rest of your night, big girl. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible,” Aveline says as they walk away.

-

They come outside just in time to see the sun begin to rise. “Oh, Andraste’s knickers,” Hawke curses.

Isabela chortles. “ _Andraste’s knickers_. Get it? Because of the knickers? That we put on Andraste? Oh, that’s good. I’m using that joke when I tell Varric about all this. He’ll love it.”

Hawke glares at her, but the effect is ruined by the yawn that nearly cracks her jaw open. “I’m getting too old for this. Why do I keep letting you drag me into these things?”

“You love it,” Isabela says. “At least when I wake you up in the small hours of the night, it’s to do something _fun_. Your adventures always involve things like self-sacrifice and doing the right thing.”

“You love it,” Hawke says, and there is a knowing smirk on her face that Isabela hates because of how it makes her feel like shivering.

Instead of going back to her manor, Hawke follows Isabela back to the room she keeps in the Blooming Rose. It isn’t the first time Hawke has spent the night with her, although she’s worried about how it’s becoming a habit.

Hawke never says anything, but Isabela thinks the manor might get too empty for her at times.

They collapse onto the bed in Isabela’s room. The curtains are thick enough that only a little light from the rising sun seeps through. Hawke looks like she’ll be asleep in under half a minute. Isabela begins to undo the clasps on her jewelry, ready to join her.

“Can I?” Hawke asks, a hand already half stretched out.

Isabela looks at her in surprise. “All right.”

Slow and careful, Hawke takes out Isabela’s earrings one by one, setting them next to each other on the table. Isabela has always made fun of Hawke for having big, clumsy fingers that are absolutely useless in picking locks or picking pockets. But they are gentle when they brush against Isabela’s skin. Hawke takes Isabela’s hand in her own, sliding each ring off like she’s committing a holy act.

A calloused thumb strokes across her knuckles.

Hawke moves so that she sits behind Isabela. She unties the scarf keeping Isabela’s hair back, folding it carefully away. Then her fingers go to her necklace, unclasping it, and putting it next to the rest of the jewelry.

Isabela feels Hawke’s lips against the back of her bared neck. This time, she does shiver.

“There. You’re beautiful,” Hawke says.

Heart hammering, Isabela pulls away from her and gets into bed. “Just so we’re clear, you owe me ten cheese pastries.”

“What? Why?” Hawke says, getting under the covers beside her.

“For not letting me pick the lock. Then we might have still had time to fill the Seneschal’s office with fish.”

“Oh, fine. How about we make it six cheese pastries?” Hawke says sleepily, into her pillow. “Ten is excessive.”

“Eight. And a new hat.”

“All right,” Hawke says, words already slurring together. “I’m going to find you the worst hat.” She yawns. “And make you wear it.” And with that, she begins to snore lightly.

But Isabela stays awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling.

She’s in love. She’s in love with this fool, this reckless idiot. She’s in love with a girl far too noble for this mess of a city.

It was time for her to leave Kirkwall.

-

It takes her almost a month to find the blasted qunari relic. It’s a month she spends aggressively avoiding Hawke whenever possible. In fact, Nora at the Hanged Man becomes accustomed to letting Isabela use the back door when it becomes necessary. It is a privilege that she charges a hefty sum for, the crafty old swindler.

In the end though, Isabela has to ask for Hawke’s help when she finally finds out where the Tome is. She’s not stupid enough to go into this alone.

Hawke spends that day giving her searching glances when she thinks Isabela’s not paying attention. Isabela spends a lot of time avoiding Hawke by annoying Aveline. The problem is, Aveline has developed this terrible habit of breaking out into a smile whenever she’s meant to be glowering. It’s a very regrettable development in their famous hatred of each other.

“Oh, I hate you. I despise you. You’re the worst, really,” says Aveline, but her eyes are nearly slits from how hard she’s grinning.

“No, really. Try it the next time with Donnic. You’ll see, he’ll love it.”

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you’ve done this before. It sounds unsanitary.”

“What in Andraste’s name are you talking about?” Hawke says, coming up behind them. Isabela jumps. For a woman clad in heavy armor and carrying a huge sword, Hawke can be very quiet on her feet. Isabela really regrets teaching her that.

“This is the place, Hawke,” Varric says, neatly saving Isabela from having to meet Hawke’s eyes. She has to remember to buy that dwarf a drink sometime.

Hawke studies the building, which doesn’t look any different from the other buildings next to it. But for Isabela, this building is what she’s been looking for since she came to this city. She’s so close. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be out far at sea with Kirkwall far behind her. She ignores the sudden stab of sadness this thought brings.

“All right,” Hawke says, hefting her sword. “Let’s go get that relic.”

-

All things considered, Isabela should have expected things would go sour. But she has the Tome in her hands. Finally, after all this time. It looks less like a priceless treasure and more like a crumbly old book, which is a little disappointing considering how much trouble it’s cost her.

Behind her, she can hear fighting. Hawke must have run into those Qunari that Isabela managed to sneak past.

She quashes down on the guilty feeling inside her. “Snap out of it, Isabela. Being on land for so long’s made you soft,” she murmurs. But she can’t stop herself from pulling out a scrap of paper and writing Hawke a note of apology.

Isabela owes her that much, at least.

-

From where she stands on the ship’s deck, tome under one arm, Isabela watches Kirkwall get smaller and smaller. Through her spyglass, she can see activity on the docks. They’re closing them off, keeping any ship from leaving. Fortunately, the ship that Isabela is on left right on time.

She turns her spyglass towards the city. She sees the first plumes of smoke begin to rise. The qunari are angry.

Unable to watch any longer, she snaps her spyglass shut. But she can’t make herself turn away. The tome under her arm feels heavier and heavier.

“Oh, I wish-” and she has to stop herself, because she _can’t_ say that. Not now. _I wish Hawke were here_.

“Maker damn you. Damn you, damn you,” she says, and she’s not sure if she’s cursing herself or Hawke.

-

Hawke isn’t fast enough. The Arishok catches her in the end, his blade going straight through her armor.

The breath catches in Isabela’s throat. She lurches forward, but Varric holds her back.

“Wait, Rivaini.” His voice sounds cracked open.

In front of them, Hawke falls to her knees, a pool of blood dripping into the marble tiles of the Viscount’s Keep. Absurdly, Isabela wonders if all of that blood will ever be completely cleaned away, or if the city will forever bear the mark of Hawke’s sacrifice.

The Arishok breathes heavily. There is no expression on his face, not even one of satisfaction at having bested Hawke. He simply has the grim resolve of an executioner. He raises his axe above his head for the killing blow and Isabela’s hands go to the hilts of her daggers. She did not come all this way to watch Hawke be killed.

But before the Arishok brings down his blade, Hawke lets out a guttural scream that echoes through the hall. She takes up her sword, and plunges it into the Arishok’s chest, twisting it viciously.

The Arishok looks down in surprise and shock. Then he falls back to the floor with a thud that shakes the floor they stand on. A few seconds later, Hawke collapses as well.

They run to her, Anders pushing ahead so he can kneel at Hawke’s side. His hands immediately begin to glow blue over Hawke’s wound.

“Aveline. I need your help,” Anders says, sweat dotting his brow. “Her heart’s stopping. I need you to compress her chest.”

Following Anders’ instructions, Aveline clasps her hands over Hawke’s chest and begins to thrust periodically.

Anders shakes his head. “Keep going,” he says. His hands are covered in blood, working to seal the wound.

“Not today, Hawke. You’re not dying on me,” Aveline growls and continues to push against Hawke’s chest. There is a snapping sound as one of Hawke’s ribs break.

And then in the next moment, Hawke’s eyes fly open, and she begins to gasp and cough.

“Why do I feel like a halla kicked me in the chest?” she groans.

Isabela comes forward, relief flooding her, and making her feel faint. “Is she going to be all right?”

Aveline stands in her way, unmoving. “I think you’ve done enough today, don’t you?” She stares Isabela down until Isabela is left with no choice but to back away.

Over Aveline’s shoulder, Isabela sees Hawke look over at the sound of her voice. Their eyes meet. Hawke doesn’t say anything, just watches. Her face is cast in a blue glow from Anders’ healing magic. Isabela’s heart sinks. Not able to bear the weight of her friends’ eyes on her, she turns to leave.

As she walks out of the Keep, news travels through the murmuring crowd that Hawke has been revived. Slowly at first, and then with greater volume and speed, they begin to chant Hawke’s name.

-

“Fenris!” she calls, intercepting him as he leaves Hawke’s manor.

He looks surprised, and then when that wears off, just tired. His armor is dusty and dirty from fighting. “Isabela,” he says, greeting her. “I did not think I would be seeing you again.”

 “How is Hawke?” she asks.

“Anders says she is stable, for now. He saved her life.” Fenris’s lips twist to the side, like saying even these few good words about Anders is distasteful to him. “She’s asleep now. She will probably not wake again for quite some time.”

Isabela lets out a breath. “Thank you, Fenris.”

 “May I ask you something?” he says. “What made you come back?”

“I don’t know,” Isabela says truthfully. “It’s all Hawke’s fault, I suppose. She has a way of making people do things they thought they couldn’t.”

Fenris smiles, and it is small enough that only a handful of people in Kirkwall would be able to recognize it. “I know what you mean,” he says.

He bids her farewell and disappears into the streets, which are still choked with dust and ashes. It’s not as bad as it is closer to the docks, from where smoke is still rising. Isabela turns her back on it all and climbs up to Hawke’s window.

When she slips inside, it is empty except for Hawke, who lies on the bed. Aveline left a while ago to help civilians, and Anders is most likely asleep in a nearby room.

“Hey,” she says, going up to Hawke. She is swaddled in bandages, and paler than Isabela has ever seen her.

“I brought you that cheese you like,” Isabela says, setting it by Hawke’s bed. “I figure the market won’t be selling it anytime soon, considering the stalls were all on fire. You don’t want to know what I had to do to get a hold of it.”

She takes a breath and sits down on the bed, careful not to disturb Hawke. “The city’s a mess right now. I suppose you know that. It was my fault. But I suppose you know that too.”

Words become more difficult, but she has to say it, even if Hawke can’t hear it. She takes Hawke’s hand where it lies over the doublet.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Tears build in her eyes. “I’m sorry for leaving, for all of this. I’m sorry that I can’t say any of this while you’re awake to say anything back. I’m a coward, I know that. You shouldn’t have expected more of me.”

Isabela knows that Hawke won’t want anything to do with her. She saw it in her eyes. She dreads the future, knowing that Hawke will wake up, despising her. She stands up from the bed. It will be a long walk back to Lowtown.

She came here to tell Hawke goodbye, but she can’t bring herself to say it. She spends too much time hovering over Hawke, though. The door handle turns, maybe Anders coming to check on Hawke. Before she can be seen, she steals out of the room the way she came.

-

She hears her name called in the busy Lowtown market and turns. Merrill launches herself into her arms hard enough that Isabela actually staggers back before catching herself. Merrill’s arms and legs wrap tightly around her torso, like some kind of girl spider.

“Merrill, you’re choking me,” Isabela says in a strangled voice.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Merrill says, immediately loosening her hold on her. “I’m just so glad to see you. I haven’t seen you in forever and ever.”

“I missed you too, Merrill,” Isabela says, and it is true. It is good to see her. She’s missed talking with her, aweing her with stories and, in turn, listening to the way Merrill speaks with love and longing about her Clan. It reminded her of the way she felt about the sea.

“Varric and Fenris say that they see you sometimes, but you never come visit me. Did I do something wrong?” Merrill asks.

“Oh, Merrill, of course you haven’t. I’m sorry I haven’t come around in a while. I’ve just been… busy,” Isabela says, hoping that Merrill will drop it. The truth is she knew that seeing Merrill would make it even more difficult to stay away from Hawke. It is happening even now, Merrill’s wide eyes making Isabela feel like the worst person alive.

“Hawke misses you,” Merrill tells her, and Isabela’s breath catches. Varric and Fenris are always careful not to mention Hawke around her, which is impressive. Trying not to mention Hawke in conversation is like trying not to look at the sun when it’s setting.

“She doesn’t say much,” Merrill continues. “But sometimes she looks sad when she thinks no one is looking. I just went to go visit her, but Anders says she needs to rest.”

Isabela freezes. “Anders? Is Hawke still not better?” The wound from the Arishok duel was pretty serious, but it’s been months since then.

 “Still?” Merrill asks, tilting her head to the side. “She just got hurt yesterday. She got an arrow, right in her thigh. It was a very big arrow.” She spreads her hands to show Isabela exactly how big. “Hawke wanted to save it and put it up on her wall, but Aveline made her throw it away, I think.”

Despite herself, Isabela smiles. It sounds like something Hawke would do.

Merrill looks thoughtful. “Hawke _has_ been getting injured a lot lately. Maybe it just happens when you’re a Champion? Champions are the same as heroes, right? All the heroes in Varric’s stories end up getting hurt quite a lot.”

“What do you mean?” Isabela asks, worried.

“Well, they always get very bad wounds. And then they wake up and they’re somewhere else. And they don’t remember!”

“No, I meant about Hawke’s injuries. What did you mean about that?”

“Oh! Well, she did break her arm a while ago. And then there was that bad scratch on her head. Oh, and she got bit by a dog too. And a giant spider. Not at the same time, mind. But it was on the same day,” Merrill says. “That’s just for this month.”

“Maker’s balls. Is she trying to get herself _killed_?” Isabela says.

Merrill looks at her in alarm. Isabela kicks herself for speaking so bluntly. “Do you think so? That’s awful? What do we do?”

“Don’t worry, kitten,” Isabela tells her, putting her hands on Merrill’s shoulders. “I’ll talk to Varric about it. He’ll know what to do.”

-

Varric pours her a drink before he answers. Isabela has her boots kicked off and is curled up on the couch in his room, idly leafing through one of Varric’s old manuscripts. He had been working on a new draft of his serial, but when Isabela casually brought up Hawke, he had gone straight for the alcohol.

“Honestly, Rivaini, I know there’s something weird going on between the two of you right now, but I’d say you should go talk to her,” he says, finally.

Isabela almost chokes on her ale. “What do I have to do with it? She’s the one almost breaking her neck every other day.”

“See, this is why I don’t get involved in shit like this,” Varric says, rolling his eyes. “You know you broke her heart, right? She hasn’t been the same since you left.”

Isabela snorts in disbelief. “Broke her heart? You’re always so dramatic. Hawke’s a grown woman.”

“If you think Hawke’s capable of using common sense like an average human being, then either you’ve forgotten what she’s really like, or we’re talking about a different Hawke.”

Isabela sighs. “All right, I’ll give you that one. Still, I don’t know what me talking to her is going to do.”

“Honestly? Me neither. But at the rate this is going, Hawke’s not going to make it to the end of the year and I’d really rather prefer she live longer than that. I’m shit at writing eulogies.”

-

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Isabela says, and knocks on the front door of the Hawke manor.

Bodahn opens it. When he recognizes her, his face breaks out into a smile. “Good evening, Miss Isabela. How may I help you?”

“I need to speak with Hawke,” she says.

“I’m very sorry, but Mistress Hawke isn’t here at the moment. She stepped out.”

“Stepped out? Stepped out where?” Isabela asks.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. She only said something about it being her sister’s nameday, and then took one of Orana’s cakes. I can tell her you were here when she comes back.”

Isabela shakes her head, and Bodahn apologizes again and closes the door. She stands in the moonlit street, trying to puzzle out where Hawke has gone. It’s a cold, blustery night, not exactly the right weather for a long night’s walk, especially someone recovering from an arrow to the thigh. Not that it’s ever really stopped Hawke before.

She goes over what Bodahn told her. Hawke’s sister’s nameday. Bethany’s nameday. But Bethany was in the Kirkwall Circle. Why would Hawke need a cake?

Realization hits her, and her insides turn cold.

“Oh, Hawke, you bloody fool,” Isabela says, and breaks into a run towards the Gallows.

-

Isabela spots Hawke crouching in the shadows outside the Gallows, a box under her arm. She appears to be waiting for a Templar patrol to pass, so that she can sneak into the Circle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Isabela whispers, coming up to her.

Hawke jumps two feet into the air. “Maker’s arse. Isabela? What are you doing here?”

“I’m keeping you from getting yourself killed, that’s what. You know if you get caught sneaking into the Gallows, Meredith will probably dismember you herself, right? Not to mention what would happen to Bethany.”

Hawke deflates visibly. “Meredith’s not letting any letters in or out. I haven’t heard from Beth in months. And it’s her _nameday_.”

“I know, Hawke. But this isn’t how you do it.”

“What makes you so sure? Why do you even care?” Hawke says.

Isabela feels like she’s been punched in the gut. “Of course I care. Who else is going to keep this damned city from falling into the ocean?”

She can hear Hawke breathing heavily, like she always does when she’s angry. “So this is about Kirkwall, is it? I didn’t know you cared so much about it. Didn’t you almost let it get ravaged by qunari a while ago?”

Hawke is _impossible_. Isabela pushes her away with a noise of disgust and stands up. “Fine. Do what you want.”

Their voices have become too loud at this point. Isabela catches the unmistakable sound of heavy armor, signaling an approaching Templar. Hawke must hear it too because she gives her a panicked look.

“Help me walk,” Hawke whispers.

Isabela looks and realizes that Hawke’s thigh is still bandaged, and she’s heavily favoring her right leg.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke. How did you even get here?” She lets Hawke lean against her.

“I can still _walk_. I’m not crippled,” Hawke says, but her voice is strained. “Now can we please get out of here?”

“With pleasure,” Isabela says, and they hobble out of the Gallows, leaving Bethany’s cake sitting by the gates of the Circle.

They find a bench a safe distance away and sit down on it, Hawke rubbing her leg with a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry about what I said back there. I didn’t mean it,” Hawke says.

“It’s nothing I don’t deserve,” Isabela says.

Hawke gives her a hard look. “That’s not true. You came back, even when you didn’t have to. When it mattered the most. They should have made you Champion, not me.”

Isabela laughs. “No thanks. Can you imagine me having to associate with all those nobles? I’ll leave that to you.”

“It does get pretty terrible,” Hawke grins. “I don’t have you to tell inappropriate dinner table stories. I missed those.”

“That was _one time_ ,” Isabela says. “I didn’t even get to the good part of the story before we were thrown out.”

“I don’t miss your gifts, though. I can’t believe you gave me moldy cheese while I was on my deathbed.”

“It was _not_ moldy. Was it?”

“It was. It tasted like burnt deep mushrooms, too.”

“You ate it even though it was moldy?”

“Of course I did. It was my favorite cheese! Although I have to say, that completely ruined it for me. Which is why I said I don’t miss your gifts.”

“Hold on, I practically saved that cheese from a burning building. The building was almost burning. It was close to a building that was burning.”

“Tales of your legendary acts of valor will be told for generations,” Hawke says in a dry voice. “I can always count on you when cheese is in danger.”

“I’d go to the ends of the world for you, Hawke.” Isabela grins, and then realizes what she’s said. The look on Hawke’s face is enough to make her want to get up right now, and leave the way she came. She feels too fragile, too open.

“I don’t want you to go to the ends of anything. Not without me, at least. You’re back now though, right?” Hawke says. “Next time I get invited to a stuffy dinner party, you’ll come along?” Hawke says. The lightness of her words is betrayed by the desperate note in her voice. Isabela’s throat goes dry.

“Look Hawke, I’ve missed you. But I think we both know that I’m not the sort of person you thought I was. I think this is a bad idea.”

But Hawke is pulling her into a kiss, cutting off the rest of her words. Isabela begins to kiss back. It’s been so long since they’ve done this, and Isabela is weak. Hawke’s arms are around her shoulders, and Isabela loves the city again. She always loves the city when she’s with Hawke.

Hawke breaks away, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Go on. You were saying something about bad ideas?”

“What was I thinking,” Isabela says. She feels dazed and happy and _right_. “You love bad ideas.”

“I do,” Hawke says, with a slow smile. Isabela feels one spreading across her own face as well. Something in her unfurls.

Hawke stands up with a wince. “And speaking of bad ideas, I think this night calls for a few drinks at the Hanged Man. If I can’t give Beth her nameday gift, the least I can do is drink myself sick in her honor.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Isabela says, letting Hawke lean on her. Together, they make their way to the Hanged Man.


End file.
